


my only natural talent's wasted

by spinnerofyarns



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alcoholism, College AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicide Attempt, jared has severe ptsd and is dealing with it very very badly, maladaptive coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-16 19:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinnerofyarns/pseuds/spinnerofyarns
Summary: cause it's better to be hammered, than a useless rusty nail-----College AU in which Jared is a not-so-functional-anymore alcoholic, and Gilfoyle is worried.(This is going to hurt. I am sorry in advance. I promise it has a relatively happy ending.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "My Alcoholic Friends" by The Dresden Dolls  
> Summary lyrics from "Pulp Fiction" by Amanda Palmer and Edward Ka-Spel
> 
> I am so, so sorry.

            Jared pours himself another glass of Canadian Club, swirling it and admiring how it catches the light. Gilfoyle looks on, biting the inside of his cheek in concern.

            “Shouldn’t you maybe ease up on that?” he suggests.

            Jared tilts the bottle towards him. “Why, do you want some?”

            “No, but that’s your fourth drink, it’s nearly 2 AM, and you have classes in the morning. You should have some water and go to sleep.” Gilfoyle says.

            Jared takes a swig of his whiskey. “If I pass out drunk I can at least be sure I won’t have any nightmares. And hey, maybe I’ll get lucky and die in my sleep, choke on my own vomit or have an aneurysm or something.”

            “Don’t joke like that,” Gilfoyle says. “Jared, I’m worried about you. You’ve got a brilliant brain and you’re pickling it in cheap whiskey. Wait, let me finish,” he says as Jared opens his mouth to argue. “I met you in differential equations and you aced that class, easy. Now you’re barely doing well enough to maintain your scholarship. It’s not healthy and you’re throwing your life away and…and I love you too much to let you do that.”

            Jared’s face hardens. “No. You don’t get to say that. I know you’re lying anyway. No one fucking loves me, and I’m going to die alone and miserable and no one is going to mourn me. So don’t fucking try to manipulate me like that because even if you do love me you’ll stop soon enough.” He downs the rest of his whiskey.

            Gilfoyle stands up. “Fine,” he says. “Drink yourself to death. If you’re so sure no one will mourn you, fucking go ahead. I’m done forgiving you and putting up with your shit. Good bye, Jared. I am fucking _done._ ” He walks out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

            “Gilf!” Jared calls after him. “Gilfoyle. _Bertram!_ I’m sorry! Please…please come back…” He trails off. He knows Gilfoyle isn’t coming back and he has no one but himself to blame.

            He picks up the bottle. Might as well do what Gilfoyle suggested and drink himself to death. If he wants to make absolutely certain that he’ll die, there’s a bottle of sedatives in his bedside table, left from an old prescription back when he still went to therapy.

\----

            Gilfoyle is almost home when his phone rings. Seeing Jared’s number, he hesitates.

            _You’re done with him,_ he thinks. _If he wants to live his life as a tragic cry for help, so be it._

 _What if he’s hurt though?_ Another voice in his mind asks. _Can you live with the guilt if he kills himself?_

            Gilfoyle freezes in the middle of the crosswalk as two images swim into his mind – Jared lying dead on the floor of his apartment, and a memory of a sad lonely empty funeral on a rainy Toronto morning.

            No, he decides, he can’t live with the guilt.

            By now the call has gone to voicemail and Jared has left him a message.  Gilfoyle taps the little icon to listen.

            “Gilfoyle,” Jared slurs, pleadingly. “Gilf, please I’m sorry. I’m – hic – I didn’t – I’m sorry. I’m a horrible person. I’m a burden and I hope you’ll be happier without me.” He heaves a deep shuddering breath, crackling through the speakers. “Goodbye, Bertram.” The rattle of a pill bottle, and then silence.

            “ _Fuck,”_ Gilfoyle says. He turns around and rushes back to Jared’s building, ignoring the drivers honking at him. Every second counts.

            He takes the stairs two at a time and pounds on Jared’s door.

            “Shit,” he says. “Fuck. Jared, please open the door, please be okay, I’m sorry, I’m a dick, please please _please_ don’t be dead.”

            No response, but Gilfoyle hears a groan and a shuffle, followed by a muffled thud.

            “ _Fuck._ ” Gilfoyle fumbles in his pocket for the key he knows he left on the table. “Shit.” He takes a few steps back and throws his weight against the door.

            It gives with a disturbing crunch, and Gilfoyle thanks Satan for shoddy student apartments.

            Jared is lying on the floor, on the carpet of his bedroom/living room, unconscious.

            Gilfoyle kneels beside him, immediately rolling him onto his side so he doesn’t choke. “Fuck. Jared, wake up. Please. I’m sorry. Please just wake up.”

            Jared groans and his eyelids flutter. Gilfoyle grabs his wrist, bones and skin, frightfully pale and fragile and delicate. There’s a pulse, weak and stuttering.

            There’s a bottle of pills – sedatives – and the bottle of Canadian Club, now empty, on the floor. “Oh, _fuck_ , Jared, what have you done,” Gilfoyle murmurs, reaching into his pocket for his phone and dialing 911.

            “What’s your emergency?”

            “My – my friend overdosed. He took a bunch of pills and drank most of a bottle of whiskey. He’s unconscious but I’ve got a pulse.”

            “Okay, we’re sending out an ambulance. Where are you?”

            Gilfoyle chokes out Jared’s address and apartment number, his fingers still on Jared’s wrist. The weak thready pulse he’d found is rapidly fading.

“Come on, Jared,” he whispers. “Stay with me. Please. I’m sorry. I love you.”

\----

            Everything after the arrival of the EMTs is a blur of activity. Jared is loaded onto a stretcher, and Gilfoyle watches as the EMTs stick tubes and IVs and needles into him before the ambulance doors close. He calls himself an Uber and follows them to the hospital, where Jared is wheeled down the hall and a nurse pushes Gilfoyle into an uncomfortable plastic chair.

            “Wait here,” she says, and bustles off, returning a minute later with a bottle of water. “Drink,” she says. “I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”

            Gilfoyle obediently opens the bottle and drinks. His heart is pounding frantically.

            _Don’t be dead,_ he thinks. _Please for the love of Lucifer don’t be dead._

            He dozes off eventually, and a few hours later the nurse from before wakes him.

            “Your friend is going to be okay,” she says. “We’ve pumped his stomach and put him on IV fluids and some Valium to mitigate withdrawal symptoms. I’ll take you to him now.”

            Gilfoyle gets up and follows her down the hall to the room where Jared’s lying in bed, still unconscious, tubes and IVs poking into his tiny body. _He looks so small,_ Gilfoyle thinks, pulling up a chair.

            “He’ll be out for a while,” the nurse says, “but he should be okay. Call me when he wakes up, all right?”

            Gilfoyle nods. “Thank you,” he says.

            “I’ll give you some privacy,” the nurse says.

            When she leaves, Gilfoyle reaches for Jared’s delicate hand.

            “Jared,” he says. “Jared, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. I was stupid. I love you. I really do. I’m so sorry.”

            Jared remains unconscious, his chest rising and falling steadily. Gilf gets comfortable in his chair and waits for Jared to wake up.

\----

            About an hour later, Jared starts shifting around and his eyes flutter open.

            “Gilfoyle,” he rasps weakly as they make eye contact. “I thought – “

            “I’m sorry,” Gilfoyle says. “Jared, I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I really do care about you. I’m worried about you. Please don’t scare me like that again.”

            Jared weakly squeezes Gilfoyle’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Gilf, I…I need help. I need to stop drinking.”

            “Okay,” Gilfoyle says. “Okay. I’m here. I’ll help you with whatever you need and I’ll support you. You’re not alone.”

            Jared nods. “Thank you,” he says softly.

            “The nurse said I should call her when you wake up,” Gilfoyle says, leaning to press the call button behind Jared’s bed.

            A few moments later the nurse comes in. Gilfoyle catches a glimpse of her nametag – Beth. It suits her, he thinks. She looks like a Beth – short, wiry, with light brown hair in a bun at the back of her head.

            “How are you feeling, honey?” she asks, reaching to check the bag on Jared’s IV.

            “Pretty lousy,” Jared admits. “It feels like I’ve had the snot beaten out of me.”

            “Well, you just overdosed, gave yourself alcohol poisoning, and scared the crap out of your friend here,” Beth says. “I need you to answer me honestly, have you had problems with drugs or alcohol in the past?”

            Jared heaves a deep shuddering breath. “Yes. I have,” he says. “Alcohol. I’m…I have a problem, and I want to quit.”

            “Good,” Beth says. “The first step is admitting you have a problem. I’ll go get you some information about Alcoholics Anonymous meetings around here. Now, as part of protocol your doctor recommends a 3 day psychiatric hold. Do you consent to this?”

            Jared bites his lip. Gilfoyle squeezes his hand and looks at him. “I’ll need the time to clear the alcohol out of your apartment. Plus, maybe they’ll be able to help with…everything,” he says softly, and Jared nods.

            “I consent,” he says in a small voice.

            “Okay,” Beth says. “I’ll see about getting you moved upstairs to psych. It’s not scary, I promise. You’re going to be okay. I’ll come visit you.”

            “Thank you,” Jared says quietly.

            “Right. You just sit tight, honey, I’ll be back with the AA schedule soon.” Beth bustles out of the room, presumably heading to check on another patient.

            “She reminds me of my mom,” Jared says softly. “My…my birth mom, I mean. What little I remember of her. She was an ER nurse too, kind and loving but no-nonsense.”

            This is the most honest Jared’s ever been while sober, and Gilfoyle knows how much it means to him to share this information. He squeezes Jared’s thin hand.

            “Your mom would be proud of you,” he says. “Not…not for ending up here, but for deciding to get help. That’s big. Really big. I’m proud of you too.” He stands up, and Jared reaches for him pleadingly. “I’ll be back later,” Gilfoyle promises. “I just need to go clear the alcohol out of your apartment.”

            Jared nods. “You promise you’ll come back?” he asks.

            “I promise,” Gilfoyle answers. “Now rest, you’ve got a rough road ahead of you.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

True to his word, Gilfoyle goes directly to Jared’s apartment, where he fills Jared’s backpack with clothes and a few books he knows Jared would want to read in the hospital. He picks up the Donna Tartt book on Jared’s nightstand, but reconsiders, because the last thing Jared needs right now is a book where nearly every character has a substance abuse problem. Once that’s done, he collects every single bottle of alcohol from the apartment and packs it all up in a box. He’ll bring it to the comp sci department, he decides. Someone will take it.

            On his way back to the hospital, he stops by his apartment to drop off the booze. As he’s walking back to the bus stop, a small tea shop on the corner catches his eye. He makes a mental note to stop by on the way home, get some nice tea to replace the alcohol in Jared’s apartment.

            Jared is throwing up when Gilfoyle comes back. Beth is rubbing his back as he retches and heaves into a plastic tub on his lap. They both look up as Gilfoyle approaches.

            “Jared, what’s wrong?” Gilfoyle immediately drops his bag and rushes to Jared’s side. He takes over rubbing Jared’s back as Beth heads for the door.

            “I’ll bring you some Zofran and ginger ale, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll be right back.” She looks at Gilfoyle. “Can you look after him till I get back?”

            “Of course,” Gilfoyle says.

            “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute.” She leaves.

            “Jared, what happened?” Gilfoyle asks again. Jared has stopped retching, and struggles to catch his breath.

            “I – I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think I ate anything I’m allergic to. Beth says it’s either a withdrawal symptom or a side effect of one of the drugs they gave me when they pumped my stomach.”

            There’s a sink in the corner of Jared’s room, and Gilfoyle takes the basin there to dump it out and rinse it. He just barely makes it back to Jared’s side in time for Jared to dry-heave. “Shhh, shh,” he soothes, rubbing Jared’s back, feeling his spine and shoulder blades under his skin. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay.”

            Beth comes back with an IV bag. “Okay, honey, since you can’t seem to keep things down right now I’m going to put you on an IV of Zofran, and refill your electrolyte IV. Once you’ve stabilized a little, there’s an open bed for you in psych. Did you bring him some clothes?” she asks Gilfoyle.

            Gilfoyle nods, pointing to the backpack. “I brought him some books, too, are those allowed? None of them are school books, so they shouldn’t contribute to stress or anything…”

            “Perfect.” Beth says. “You can stay here for…” she checks her watch. “Well, actually, I’m afraid I have to kick you out. And you can’t visit him on his first day in psych, so you’ll have to wait till the day after tomorrow, okay?”

            Jared looks horrified at this prospect.

            “I’ll be here as early as I can,” Gilfoyle promises. “You just rest and focus on getting better, okay? I’ll call your professors and let them know you’re not feeling well and won’t be in class this week.”

            Jared nods and watches him leave, with wide sad eyes.

            “Is he your boyfriend?” Beth asks, checking his IV line.

            Jared shakes his head. “Just a friend.”

            “Well, you hold on to that friend,” Beth tells him, patting the back of his hand. “Now, just sit tight for a bit, and I’ll come back to check on you and move you up to psych in a couple minutes.”

            Jared nods and Beth leaves. He sinks back onto his pillows and shuts his eyes, trying to make the horrific nausea stop.

\----

            On his way back to his apartment, Gilfoyle stops at the tea shop. He picks up several tins of tea – Darjeeling, oolong, and jasmine green tea – to bring over to Jared’s apartment later.

            When he gets home, Gilfoyle grabs his laptop and runs a search for “alcohol withdrawal” and “alcoholic recovery” and “helping recovering alcoholics”.

            He spends hours reading about the symptoms, and advice on dealing with withdrawal, and makes a list of things he can do to help Jared recover. He knows it’s not going to be easy and he can’t cure Jared, but he can at least make it hurt a little less.

            For the entirety of the next day, Gilfoyle worries about Jared. He barely pays attention in classes, and as soon as classes end he goes home and continues his research.

\----

            Jared’s first day in the psych ward is a blur of nausea, pain, and hot flashes. He tosses and turns, his skin clammy with sweat, only pausing when nurses come in to check his vitals or change his IVs. But by the end of the day he’s feeling a little better, and even manages to nibble on some rice crackers Beth sneaks in for him.

            She convinces him to move from his bed to an armchair so she can change the sheets.

            “You’ll feel better when you’re not lying in a pool of your own sweat,” she says. When she’s done, she helps him get back into bed and sits down beside him.

            “You’re going to be okay, honey,” she says. “It won’t be easy but you’ll be okay. You’re strong. You can do it. And I’ve got a schedule of nearby AA meetings for you, so you’ll have support when you get out.” She hands him a pamphlet. Jared takes it.

            “Thank you,” he says softly, placing it on the nightstand by his bed.

            Beth squeezes his hand. “I wrote my number in there too. If you ever need support, call me. I’ve been there, and I’ll do everything to help you.”

            “Thank you,” Jared says again.

            “You’ll have a one-on-one with a psychiatrist tomorrow, and then a group therapy session, and then after that you’ll be able to see your friend,” Beth says.

            Jared cringes. “The…the group session,” he says. “Is that…do I have to?”

            “You have to go. You don’t have to speak. But I think you might find it helpful to hear from other people who are going through the same thing as you.” Beth says. “I know I did.” She pats his hand and stands up. “I’m going to go make my rounds and I’ll check on you again after my shift, okay?”

            Jared nods. “See you then,” he says.

\----

            The next day, Gilfoyle can barely sit through his classes. The second the professor dismisses his last lecture, he dashes out the door to get on the train.

            Beth happens to be walking out as he arrives. “Hey, you’re here to see Jared, right?” she says. “I’ll take you to him.” She leads him inside and up to the third floor to Psych.

            Jared’s sitting up in bed when Gilfoyle comes in. He’s still ghostly pale, but his skin is no longer clammy and he seems to have stopped vomiting. He even smiles when he sees Gilfoyle.

            “You came back,” he says, as though he didn’t quite believe Gilfoyle would.

            “Of course I did,” Gilfoyle says. “How are you feeling?”

            “Better,” Jared says. “Therapy was…miserable, though. Just being surrounded by all these other miserable messed-up people. Everyone’s lives are so awful. I feel like compared to them I really have no reason to be here. I mean, the only reason why I started drinking was because I had nightmares and flashbacks about everything that happened to me growing up. It seems like such a dumb reason.” He fidgets with his blanket and Gilfoyle frowns.

            “Jared, from what you’ve told me, your childhood sounds miserable,” he says. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. And maybe drinking wasn’t the healthiest way to cope but it was the only one that was available to you at the time, and I don’t judge you for doing it. But I’m glad you’re getting help now, and I’m here for you every step of the way.”

            Jared sighs. “I keep forgetting how much I told you when I was drunk,” he says. “That’s going to be…difficult to deal with, isn’t it.”

            Gilfoyle sighs. “Yeah, but so long as it helps me help you get better, it will be worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will actually feature Jared in therapy. Enjoy.


End file.
